


Pay the Piper to Sing His Song

by kowaiyoukai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Explaining the Deal, F/M, I don't care what you say, John Winchester is an asshole, Military, Near Death Experience, as far as I'm concerned, this is canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-25
Updated: 2008-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/pseuds/kowaiyoukai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Mary wondered about the deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pay the Piper to Sing His Song

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the May 2008 round of [spn_monthlyfic](http://spn-monthlyfic.livejournal.com/). Challenge: tahirire, Mary/John, dating, engagement, future plans, "Everyone thinks I'm crazy for falling for a Marine." I hate John and the military, and I heart angst, so I was really the last person who should have gotten this challenge. Ah well. Hope you like it, tahirire and everyone else, even though it's so the opposite of what you were probably thinking it would be, given the challenge and all. This is why I cannot be trusted with fluff! Also, this completely took on a life of its own and I don't know what happened and I CANNOT BE BLAMED FOR THIS.

The bar was the kind of place Mary would usually never set foot in. The tables were all made out of wood that looked half-rotted, the lights were constantly dimmed to give the place what she supposed passed for atmosphere, and the only music they ever played were the hard rock songs that always had Mary changing the radio when they came on. The patrons of the place seemed as if they were ready to snap at any moment—all of their hands were fisted; their mouths were pressed into hard, thin lines or stretched into a mockery of a grin; their eyes were slit so that she could barely see the whites.

" _This_ is the place?" Mary asked, looking over at Steve with a raised eyebrow.

Steve grinned. He had short brown hair, brown eyes that were so wide they seemed to reflect anything they saw, and a full mouth that was constantly smiling. He was taller than her by a good foot, and currently he was wearing a pair of wrinkled khakis and a dark red t-shirt with some band's logo she had never heard of blazoned across it.

"You did say it was my choice tonight," he replied. Steve leaned over and grabbed her hand, dragging her along behind him further into the bar. "Come on, let's get a drink."

Mary rolled her eyes but let herself be pulled along. It was Steve's birthday, so she had to go along with what he wanted, but she certainly didn't have to like it.

"Everyone thinks I'm crazy for falling for a Marine," she muttered, loud enough that he could hear but still low enough to pretend as if she was talking to herself. "This is probably why."

Steve laughed as they reached the long bar that covered one entire wall. "Come on, it's not _that_ bad." Steve dragged out a stool for her to sit on and jumped on top of the one directly next to it.

Mary hopped up onto the stool and waited patiently while Steve ordered for them. She never came to places like this, so she had no idea how to act. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the bar nervously until their drinks came, and then she took a small sip. Her mouth pursued and her nose crinkled at the bitter flavor.

"You like it?" Steve asked. "It's my favorite drink here."

"Very…" Mary paused, searching for the right word. "Appropriate."

They began talking about little, irrelevant things. The movie they had seen last night, the restaurant they had just come from, the latest book they had each read. Mary couldn't have cared less about any of that. What she did care about was the way Steve's hand was lingering over her own, thumb and forefinger rubbing small nonsense shapes into her skin. His eyes traced her face, and she blushed lightly.

She was such a fool for this man.

Steve's eyes moved to look just past her and his grin widened. "Hey! John!"

Mary turned to look at who Steve was calling out to. Her eyes widened when she took in the man who gave a nod and started stomping their way. He fit in just right with everyone else in this bar, and Mary shifted a bit closer to Steve.

"Steve," the man, John, said. He looked at Mary and then back at Steve. "I thought you were on a boat somewhere in the Atlantic."

Mary stiffened at the blatant way she had been ignored.

"You and me both," Steve said. He smiled wider and shrugged. "My leave got moved up a few weeks, so here I am."

John grunted in a way that somehow encompassed acknowledgement of Steve's statement. Mary felt herself frown and didn't try to conceal it.

"Oh, how rude of me," Steve said, suddenly putting a hand on Mary's shoulder and gesturing to her with his free hand. "This is my girlfriend, Mary."

John nodded and stuck his hand out, completely too close for Mary's liking. "John. Winchester."

Mary took the proffered hand and shook it lightly, feeling John's fingers clench much too tightly around her own.

"Charmed," Mary said so quickly that she was sure she had enunciated it all wrong.

John dropped her hand and Mary snatched it back. Steve grinned and said good-bye to John, who wandered off to go linger in some dark corner.

Mary looked at Steve and said, "That man is positively atrocious in every way."

Steve grinned and shrugged. "He grows on you."

Mary took another sip of her drink. The bitter liquid scorched her throat as it went down. "I highly doubt that."

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The whole idea of a going-away party baffled Mary. Throwing a party because someone was leaving? It seemed as if she was supposed to be celebrating the fact that Steve was going overseas, or maybe that she was expected to want him to leave. Going to some military outpost in some country she couldn't pronounce didn't seem like something she should be celebrating, especially when it was Steve who was leaving.

Yet here she was, standing by the table full of vegetables, crackers, and various types of cheeses and dips, wondering what the hell she had been thinking to agree to come here. Steve was across the room, laughing with some of his military friends, and he wasn't even looking in her direction.

Mary frowned and turned to the table. Steve's military life was so completely beyond her. She had never understood the idea of being in the military, nor had she understood the desire to defend the country by killing other people. The physical training was intensive, and although she enjoyed the effects on Steve's body of all of those workouts, she knew that she would never submit herself to that kind of torture. And shooting a gun? The closest she had ever come to shooting a gun was when a traveling fair had come to town and she had used a water gun to squirt at a bull's eye. She had missed so badly that everyone had laughed, even the guy running the stupid booth. As if being unable to aim was really something she should be ashamed of. As if she had any desire at all to point a gun at someone and squeeze her finger on the trigger, sentencing a family to mourn the loss of their child because she wanted to be able to aim well.

She would never understand the military types, no matter how often she was around them. Steve wasn't like his friends; he still didn't have that stoic look on his face that hardly ever cracked. Mary wondered if he would ever get to that point, but then shook her head forcefully. He wouldn't; of course he wouldn't. She would be there to stop it.

"Mary."

The unfamiliar voice made her turn, asking, "Yes?" Then she saw the man Steve had introduced her to that one time, over a year ago now, that creepy man who had the look and had ignored her on first glance. "Oh," she said, and made no effort to hide her disappointment.

"Good seeing you again," the man said.

Mary pursed her lips. "I do apologize, I've forgotten your name."

The man's mouth twitched, as if he had some sort of disease that forced him to never smile when he wanted to. "John."

"Oh yes, John." Mary smiled briefly at him before turning back to the table. "Have you tried the cheese? It's very good."

"No. Will you go out with me?"

John's voice was steady, monotone. Mary's whole body stilled and then she looked over at him.

"Sorry?" she asked, knowing that there was no possible way she had just heard him correctly.

"I haven't had the cheese," John repeated. Mary began to relax, but then he added, "Will you go out with me?"

There was a pause just long enough for Mary to wonder if she could pretend she hadn't heard him.

"I'm with Steve," she said, enunciating clearly in case he was slow to understand. "So, no."

John shrugged. "He doesn't stay with girls very long."

Mary's lips thinned. "We're getting married."

John raised an eyebrow. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Mary held out her left hand, showing him the engagement ring that was displayed unmistakably on her ring finger. She dangled her fingers in front of his face, enjoying the looks of confusion and then horror that passed quickly across his face before he became stoic once more. "We've been engaged for over three months now."

John nodded once and said, "My mistake." He reached over to the cheese and took a piece, throwing it into his mouth and swallowing it whole. "You're right." Then he stomped away, leaving Mary alone next to the table once again.

Steve had been wrong. John hadn't grown on her at all.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Her hands were trembling. They tightened on the steering wheel, clutching at it desperately. Her knuckles were white from it, her fingers felt numb, and still she tried to grip it harder. The letter was on the passenger seat, crumpled into a ball and mocking her. It felt like it should have been in the middle of the night and raining, not just after two in the afternoon with the sun shining brightly overheard, illuminating everything too clearly to ignore.

She was swerving on the road. The tires never crossed the double yellow lines, but still, she was swerving. Her vision was too blurred to see the road correctly, and her foot kept on pressing the gas a little more, forcing the needle on the speedometer to climb another notch every few seconds.

Steve couldn't be dead. She was sure of it. Mary had never been as sure of anything in her life as she was of the fact that there was no possible way that Steve could have died in God-knew-where-istan. He was a Marine, he had been trained, he knew how to kill a man using his bare hands, there was just no way. He had promised they would get married after he came back, _promised_ her that he would stay with her forever.

They wanted her to plan the funeral, even though there wasn't a body to bury. They wouldn't tell her what happened to his body, but she had seen enough war movies to know about things like grenades and bombs, and she had always turned into Steve's shoulder at those parts, unwilling to see any more than she had to. Now, though, she was seeing everything perfectly.

There was a car in her lane, coming straight towards her, and then she realized she had crossed the double yellow line after all, but by that point her head was already through the windshield, cracking and breaking the glass as though it was one of those crackers at Steve's party. It broke into pieces and shattered around her, spilling crumbs everywhere that cut into her flesh and stuck there like the way she was supposed to have hit the bull's eye. But the water had only fell off of the curtain behind it, sliding down like the way she slid down now, body crumpling and lurching against the steering wheel. Her whole body was numb now, not just her hands, and the letter was there, fluttering in front of her and absolutely covered, dripping with a red liquid that hadn't been there before but was now covering a lot more than just the letter. Thoughts filtered through her head, images and single words that made no sense and had no connection to each other, and then she thought of her parents, her friends, Steve.

Then she thought of nothing at all.

That nothingness lasted for no more than a second, and she was suddenly standing in a white room that was completely empty except for one other man. The walls and ceiling and floor were all white, so bright it hurt to look at, and she instead focused on the man leaning against the nearest wall.

"Hi," he said, and she couldn't focus on his features at all, but his eyes were yellow and that stood out to her. "I know we've never met, but I thought now would be a perfect time to introduce myself. You know, say hi, how you doing, save your life, that sort of thing."

Mary felt separated from her body and realized belatedly that she wasn't in a body at all. She was just sort of suspended in midair, a few inches above the ground. She tried moving, found that she couldn't, and tried to speak. "What's going on?"

"Now, that's a very good question," he said, clapping his hands together. The loud, smacking noise echoed around the room too loudly. She thought she must be dreaming. "No, Mary dear, not dreaming," he responded. "Just dead. Well, almost dead. About to be dead, I should say."

She was about to be dead, she had not spoken aloud, and he was some sort of god of death waiting to pass judgment on her.

He barked out a laugh. "A god of death? What are they _teaching_ you kids these days?" He shook his head and continued, "No, I'm just your garden-variety demon. Well, better than your average demon, sure, no reason to be so modest."

Mary swallowed thickly, although her throat did not move at all. "Are you here to send me to hell?" The sheer horror of the idea sent a shiver through her mind, even though her form still didn't move.

The demon grinned at her. "No, actually, I'm not. Weren't you listening at the beginning? I'm here to save your life."

Mary had no response to that. She had no idea why a demon would do that, and in fact, she wasn't sure she wanted to be saved by a demon.

"Sure you do," he replied. "You want to live, don't you?"

She remembered the letter, the way she had crumpled it up and tossed it aside, the way it had somehow managed to get tossed up and unwrinkled, then fluttered down in front of her, tainting her.

"Yes, it's all very sad about Steve. He was…" the demon trailed off and then smiled. "A guy. But _you_ ," he said, pointing to Mary with a theatrical move. "You are exactly the kind of person who needs to stay alive."

"No," Mary said, wanting to shake her head and move away but unable to. "I don't want to live without him."

The demon rolled his eyes and sighed. "Young love. It's a killer. I know, I know, you feel like nothing in your life could ever be right again. Right?" Mary attempted to reply but the demon said, "Wrong! Your life is more precious than you know. You need to keep going."

Mary wanted to cry. "I don't want to, I don't want to."

The demon frowned and said, "What about your family? Your friends? Aren't you going to miss them?"

"I…" Mary trailed off. "I just… yes, of course, but I…"

"And what do you think they'll do, with this news that you got into a car wreck and died?" The demon shook his head sadly. "Do you think your parents will be able to get over losing you?"

Mary remembered her own ideas about why people shouldn't go to war, about losing loved ones and how it affected you. She remembered getting the letter, how she had sobbed and jumped into her car without thinking where she would go or what she could do. Would her parents do that, when they found out?

"Maybe," the demon said. "They are awfully emotional people, aren't they?"

She thought of her mother and couldn't imagine the look on her mother's face—didn't even want to imagine it—if she got this kind of horrible news. Her father would try to get through it, she knew, but he would break down in private and he never accepted help from anyone, even when he sorely needed it.

"They probably wouldn't be able to handle your death," the demon said. "Who knows what they would do, in their grieved state?"

Mary wanted to close her eyes, to turn away. But she could only float there, staring at the demon.

"I…" Mary trailed off and then felt a wave of horror wash over her. She would live again, she knew. She would have to. "All right."

"All right what?" the demon said, grinning.

"All right, you can save me." Mary wished she could look away from him, but he was standing right there and there was no escaping from this moment. "I want you to save me."

"Well, that's grand," the demon exclaimed. "But, just so you know, you have to do something for me as well."

"What?" Mary asked.

"I _am_ a demon, you know," he said, laughing. "We don't just go around saving people's lives for nothing."

Mary waited for it, waited to see what the demon wanted from her. She thought she had nothing the demon wanted, and could do nothing for him, and so whatever request he had would be impossible to do. So she was still going to die in the end.

"Nonsense," the demon said, waving his hand at her, scoffing. "If you agree to this very possible to accomplish task, your wounds will be healed enough to save you. You have my word on that."

"What is it?" Mary asked.

"I want you," the demon said, pointing at her once more, "to marry John." Mary stared blankly at him. "John Winchester, the grumpy guy at the party who asked you out?"

"But… no," Mary said, horrified. "I mean, I can't. Steve, I'm in love with Steve."

The demon shrugged. "Steve's dead. You're going to have to move on. Do it with John."

Mary's eyes widened. She had forgotten.

"Oh, that's not all," he said, smiling again at her. "I also need you to give your second-born child to me."

Mary wanted to recoil away from this thing, this demon who was asking too much and who probably wouldn't even keep his end of the deal.

"I wouldn't," Mary said, almost shouting. "I wouldn't do something like that!"

"Oh, no?" the demon asked. He shrugged. "Well, then, be sure to tell your parents hi when you see them in a few days. It probably won't even take them that long, I'd guess."

Mary looked at him, unable not to, horrified at his implications. "I—"

"I'll just be going then," he said, and turned away from her.

"Wait," Mary said, and it wasn't loud but he stopped anyway and turned back towards her.

"Yes?" he asked, and his eyes glittered.

She had no particular feelings for John. She hadn't even known his last name. But he liked her, she thought, and he would probably treat her well. But her child… well, it was a child with a man she didn't love, and anyway, it would be her second. Who knew if she would even end up having kids with John at all?

"You'll have to," the demon said. "Otherwise you'll have reneged on your half of the deal, and you'll die."

So she would have kids with him. But, she'd have her first-born, wouldn't she? And, she could have other kids after her second, right?

"As many as you want," the demon promised, eyes glittering.

She wanted to live so that her parents wouldn't suffer. She wanted to live so that she could see her friends again. She wanted to live so that she could make a new life.

"All right," Mary said. "I agree."

"Excellent," the demon said. Its yellow eyes were still glittering when she felt herself fall.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

"It's a miracle." The doctor was talking, going on and on about how she should have died, how with the amount of blood loss and bones she had broken and with her head cracked open the way it had, there had been no chance for her survival.

"Not exactly," Mary said, but the doctor kept on talking as if she hadn't spoken at all.

Several hours later, when visiting hours were almost over and everyone had already came and told her that it was a miracle, she was lying in bed waiting for the doctors to release her. They said they wanted to run more tests, but Mary was getting frustrated with the tests. The surgeries had gone well, and she was sure she wasn't going to die. Of course, she couldn't explain why she was so sure to the doctors, and that was why she was still laying there, eyes fixed uncomprehendingly on the television in the corner.

Her door opened, and John walked in. He was holding a bouquet of flowers and looked as emotionless as ever. She wondered briefly if it was all a mask, some sort of protection from showing people his emotions, and then thought that was the stupidest thing she had heard of. There was no reason to hide your emotions—it just left other people confused and upset.

"I'm sorry for your loss," John said, and he handed her the bouquet. She wanted to smack it away, to tell him he was an idiot for not showing if he was upset, that it made her wonder if he even cared at all, that she wasn't taking his flowers and she certainly wasn't getting married to him.

"Thank you," she said. "Would you mind asking the nurse for something to put those in?"

John nodded and walked out. Mary took a minute to collect herself. She had to be civil to this man. They were going to get married and have at least two kids, and she would be damned if she was going to be trapped in a completely loveless and horrible marriage. She might be damned _anyway_ , considering the deal she had made, but the least she could do was try and have a good life regardless.

When the door opened again, Mary hoped she was smiling. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

John was a gentleman in every way. He held doors open, he paid for everything, he let her pick the movie, he was polite all the time—it should have been enough.

It wasn't. Mary was used to Steve. She was used to a give-and-take relationship, where she sometimes didn't get her way and got irritated and had to learn to put up with things she didn't enjoy. At first, she had hated that aspect of her relationship with Steve, but she had grown to understand that it meant Steve was being honest with her. By telling her his feelings and showing her his interests, it meant he loved her and wanted her to know about his life.

But John, he was completely different. Mary didn't know what John's favorite restaurant was because they always went to wherever she wanted to go. She didn't know John's favorite kinds of movies because they always saw what she wanted to see. She didn't know who his friends were because he knew she didn't like going to bars, so they never went to where his friends were. There were a thousand things Mary didn't know about John, and she couldn't help but wonder if it would all work out. Could she be with someone who never showed her his life? Could she get married to a man who refused to treat her as an equal and instead held her in ridiculously high regard? The man idolized her; he practically worshipped the ground she walked on. It was as if John had been granted a chance at being with Mary against all odds, and now he wasn't going to screw it up.,

But Mary didn't want someone who was constantly hiding behind a façade. She knew from experience that John wasn't just a polite guy who enjoyed bending over backwards to do everything she wanted. John was the sort of man who didn't know how to express his feelings, and stumbled over them, and everything came out wrong. She could have lived with that. She might even have found it endearing.

But she couldn't live with this lie. Even though they needed to get married and have kids, Mary wanted to be able to talk to John. They were going to raise kids together—they needed to be able to communicate with each other. If nothing else, she was sure of that.

"You should talk to me more," she said one day, when they were sitting in his truck. He was driving, as always, and she was in the passenger seat, staring at the road ahead of them. She didn't like driving now, not after the accident, and so she was resigned to a life of being chauffeured around.

John was silent, as he always was. He barely ever spoke to her when she wanted him to, and often he came out with non-sequiturs that left her wondering if he had even heard her at all.

"I talk to you," he finally said, after more than a minute of silence.

"I'd like to know more about you," Mary continued, trying to get across what she was thinking. "I don't know what you're thinking, or feeling. We're dating, so I'd like to know those sorts of things."

John kept quiet. Mary had enough time to wonder if she had gotten her point across or not when he reached over and turned on the radio, flipping it to a classic rock station. Mary's mouth twisted.

"Ugh, you know I can't stand rock," Mary said, scrunching her nose up in distaste.

John kept looking straight ahead. "I know." There was a significant pause during which Mary wondered if he was doing this just to irritate her. "I like it."

"Oh," Mary said. She let her gaze wander to the double yellow lines in the middle of the road—never touching, never intersecting, always on opposite sides, heading in different directions, yet also always side by side, traveling from one horizon to the other while staying right next to each other the entire time.

John kept quiet, and Mary continued looking out the window. She figured she'd let him have his way, just this once.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Their marriage was a fairly simple affair. Neither John nor Mary had a lot of money to work with, and their parents helped out some but not enough to really go crazy. Mary had always imagined having a huge, fancy wedding in a Catholic cathedral. There would be these great columns that were too big to fit her arms around, and they would stretch up from the ground all the way to the domed ceiling. That ceiling would be carved with angels and saints and there would be stained glass windows on some parts, just enough so that when sunlight filtered down through them, streams of colors would highlight the room. Mary would stand in a circle of those colors, and they would catch on her white dress and make her seem otherworldly. Everyone's eyes would be on her as she moved, and the one thing people would remember about that day was the way she looked—innocent, elegant, heavenly.

It was raining. Down-pouring, really—these huge drops of water were falling, causing people to come in with their shoes completely soaked through and at least a few inches of their pants as well. The women were only slightly better off since they were pulling up their dresses to avoid the mud, but most of the men's suits would need to be dry-cleaned. Everyone's hair was a disaster, but that was more of an inconvenience for the men as opposed to the catastrophic horror the women went through. There was a line for the bathroom, and women were re-applying make-up and attempting to adjust their hair. Children were running around, some covered in mud while others looked at them longingly, clearly wishing to be allowed to play in the puddles as well.

The church was small. It was their local church, which Mary used to go to when her parents had forced her to and had stopped going when she was old enough to make the decision herself. She had debated going back after her accident, but it had felt wrong stepping into a holy place after her deal. She felt as if she had been tested and had failed miserably. John, on the other hand, had never gone to church before. So Mary felt a bit better about her situation, at least when it was compared to his blatant disregard for religion.

Mary would never tell anyone, but the day after John proposed and she agreed, she had stood outside this church for a full two hours. It had been night, and no one had been around, and Mary had stared at the huge cross over the door and wondered. She had visions circling around her head of being repelled at the doors, or of her hand reaching out and being unable to grasp at the handle, or of setting foot inside and then having her shoe burst into flames. It had been ridiculous, but when she had finally gathered the courage to go up to the church door and open it, she realized it had been locked all along. She had lain awake that night, thinking of deals with demons and eternity and sinful souls. The next day she walked in without a second thought, not caring who would see whatever would happen to her, but the only exciting thing during her visit had been a leaky ceiling tile. 

It was a small church—it only held a maximum of 200 people, and even at that it was clear they weren't nearly going to be filling up that many seats. There were no columns, and there were no stained glass windows, and her dress was a simple white gown that puffed out near the end.

The ceremony came and went without any fuss, except there were a few children playing a game of rock, paper, scissors in the very last pew, the one closest to the door. Mary was concentrating on the pastor's voice, but occasionally she would hear the telltale giggling and their whispered cries of "One, two, three, shoot!" She wasn't sure which she preferred—the people who ignored them or the people who occasionally hissed, "Shh!" She wondered where their parents were and why they weren't controlling their children. When she had kids, she knew she would never let them get this unruly. Playing in mud and causing a ruckus during a wedding—her children would never be like that. Her children would always follow the rules and be polite and quiet; they would never cause a racket or trouble for anyone. She would make sure of that.

The reception was as good as it could be, given that it was being held in the VFW across the street. There were white and pink crepe paper strands hung in twists and curls at different lengths and angles across the ceiling. The cake was one layer with vanilla icing, and it read "Congralutions John + Marie". There was a figurine stuck on top of a man and a women, connected together completely on one side, standing straight up with expressionless faces. Some possibly well-meaning person had used a sharpie to curve the ends of the figure's mouths up, so that when she squinted and titled her head a little, she could almost pretend that they were smiling.

When she had first arrived, she had seen an argument by the cake. One of the bakers had rushed past her, leaving before shouting could start, and she was left facing a waiter apologizing to her about the lateness of the cake and asking if there was anything he could do. She shook her head at him and he scampered off, no doubt grateful that she wasn't going to throw a fit. She had wanted to throw a fit about it. In fact, she _still_ wanted to throw a fit about the cake, but she knew their small town only had one bakery, and ordering them to make another cake right now would be impossible. The initial anger over the mistake had faded away, and now she simply felt resigned. She focused on the other offerings on the table—pretzels, chips and dip, vegetables, fruit, and an assortment of cookies that were arranged artfully. She supposed it could have been worse.

"Congratulations."

Mary turned and smiled at the person who had spoken. She had no idea who he was, but figured it was better to be polite, especially when she'd be expected to remember these people in the future. "Thanks," she said.

"It was a beautiful wedding, Marie."

Mary frowned. "It's Mary."

The man frowned as well. He glanced over her shoulder and pointed at the cake. "The cake says Marie."

Mary clenched her teeth together and bit out, "I know what the cake says." Then she turned her back to the man and grabbed a plate, filling it with pretzels.

"Hm." John's dissatisfied grunt came from behind her, and Mary turned again to watch as John took a spare plastic knife and began fiddling with the icing on the cake. After a moment he motioned her over with a head tilt, and she looked over his shoulder at the newly improved icing, which now read "Congralutions John + Mar" and after the r there was a weird mixture of shapes, sort of a cross between a half-moon with a J on the bottom of it or an upside-down C with a squiggle on the end. "What do you think?" John asked, and his voice was as monotone as ever.

Mary couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. "I think it's a work of art."

John grinned at her and said, "I've got some hidden talent."

Mary thought, _Maybe_. Then she popped a pretzel in her mouth.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

There were boxes everywhere that covered every flat surface, including the floor, kitchen counter, dining room table, couch, all of the chairs, all of the beds, the stairs, and the small table in the hallway that was only supposed to be for the mail, phone, and throwing keys on. Most of them were open, the cardboard sides titled in random directions and bent at odd angles, depending on how desperate they had been to find something. There had been a system when she had packed everything away—she had labeled the boxes with clear indicators, such as "Kitchen" and "Bedroom". So why was it that, when she opened one of the "Living Room" boxes, she found the spaghetti strainer she had been looking for?

This was, Mary assumed, the mystery of moving.

They had been at it for days, arranging furniture and then bringing in the boxes. Mary had never known just how much stuff she had until she had seen the amount of boxes. She figured it was a good thing, in the end, since the two-story house was pretty big. Not overly so, but it was big enough that she knew she'd want to get more stuff even after unpacking the boxes. It was in Mary's nature to want to fill up empty spaces. She had seen immaculate homes before and had always thought they looked cold and uncomfortable. A little bit of clutter here and there made her feel more at home. That kind of lived-in feel took years to acquire, but she was willing to wait for it.

John was upstairs, emptying out some of the boxes of his clothes. He didn't have much, which was fine by Mary since it meant she got more closet space. When she heard him come stomping down the stairs, she turned and looked inquiringly at him.

"What are we doing with the spare rooms?" he asked.

Mary turned back to unpacking the living room boxes. "I thought we agreed one would be a nursery and the other would be a spare bedroom."

John shuffled his feet. "But... are you sure?"

"Am I sure about what?"

"The nursery." John coughed a little and Mary could practically see him fidgeting, even though she wasn't looking at him at all. "I mean, I thought you might want to wait a bit…"

Mary cut him off. "We're not waiting," she declared. "I want at least two kids, possibly more. Might as well fix the rooms up now."

"But," John said, and then paused. "Are you sure? There's no rush, you know. It's not like we've got a kid quota to meet."

Mary continued unpacking the box. "We're not waiting," she repeated.

"Mm," John grunted, and then he stomped back up the stairs, presumably to go take the measurements for the spare rooms. They would need to buy more furniture for the nursery.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The hospital room was so white. Not as white as that other room she had been in, nothing would ever be as white as that. But it came pretty close.

Her memories of the delivery were hazy. She remembered being in a lot of pain, which was a horrible understatement, but there was really no way to describe that much pain. She remembered John holding her hand and some voices telling her it would be all right, and now here she was, lying in bed with a baby in her arms.

John was smiling at her and their baby, looking proud and happy. Mary kept on looking at the child in her arms, marveling at how little he was and how much care she would have to take with him. He wiggled his fingers and toes, and she knew that she would do anything to protect this child, anything at all.

"Let's call him Dean," John said, voice warm and soft.

"Okay," Mary agreed, and then immediately wished she hadn't. She had wanted to name this first baby. This baby was hers to keep, and she wanted to be the one to name him and care for him.

John must have seen something on her face because the next minute he laughed and said, "You don't like the name?"

"No, it's not that," Mary said. It wasn't—Dean was a great name. It gave off an impression of strength. She wanted that for him—that he could be strong in situations where she hadn't been able to.

"You can name the next one, how about that?" John asked.

Mary's back stiffened and her shoulders tightened and she thought she might say something she shouldn't. Instead, she just nodded and held onto Dean, rocking him in her arms and silently promising to protect him, no matter what.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Dean was a monster. He was terrible, absolutely terrible! He never slept when they wanted to sleep, he always threw his food around, he screamed and cried and played with things like the plastic bags toys came in instead of the actual toys themselves. He was just generally the worst behaved child she had ever had the misfortune to be around.

She loved Dean, she did, but he had so much energy and she was so tired all of the time. John had work, and so when he was gone it was completely Mary's responsibility to care for Dean. She just wanted some time to sleep and to not have to chase after Dean, trying to convince him that smacking his action figure into everything he passed was a bad idea.

Dean eventually turned around, grinned at her with his mouth full of half-formed teeth, and stuck the head of the action figure into his mouth. A line of drool hung from his bottom lip as he gnawed on the plastic toy.

"No!" Mary shouted, and dove for him. She ended up with her face on the floor and her arms outstretched as Dean giggled and ran away, waving one arm wildly over his head and using the other to hold the action figure even tighter.

Mary wondered if this was some sort of divine retribution.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

"So?" John asked, smiling again, just like he had been the first time around. "What's his name?"

"Sam," she replied.

"That's a good name," John said, nodding his approval.

Actually, Mary hated the name. It was too soft at the end and every time she heard it she thought of hobbits. And it was one of those genderless names—it could be short for Samuel or Samantha. And it looked weird written down, especially in cursive. Plus, she hated any names that were shorter than four letters. Sam, Bob, Joe, Jim, Tom—they all sounded like hillbillies. She could see the lot of them starting some kind of banjo band together.

Sam wriggled in her arms, curling closer to her. He was so quiet, so trusting. He had no idea about the deal she had made. He had no idea that she had sacrificed him to save herself.

She hadn't thought that she would hold him. She'd thought that the demon would come and take him away right after she had him, that there would be some kind of missing child alert and they'd never see him again. But here he was, in her arms and ready to be taken home.

He was so small. She had no idea she would love him this much.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sometimes Mary wondered about the deal. The mechanics of it, the way the whole thing would work out in the end. She had thought that the deal meant she exchanged her life for Sam's, but she wasn't too sure any more. They were both alive now, and each day that passed was a day that the demon hadn't come to take him away. Give your second-born child to me. That's what the demon had said. But the specifics of it were all left unspoken. She realized, much too late, that she had agreed to something that she had no knowledge about.

When would the demon take Sam? When he was nine years old, already making friends in school? It would be impossible to explain away his disappearance then. When he was twenty and old enough to defend himself? Or maybe he would live out his entire life, and only when he died would he be given to the demon.

Mary shuddered. She hadn't wanted to love Sam. She couldn't imagine watching him grow up, knowing that she had traded away his life for her own. She couldn't imagine watching him, day after day, as he matured and learned about life and made mistakes and kept on struggling to live, and knowing that all of it was meaningless. She fought against the images as they popped into her head, one after another—Sam's first birthday party, with balloons and a cake and presents; Sam's first day of school, with new shoes and a new jacket and a bright grin spread across his face; Sam's first trip to an amusement park, eyes all wide as he took in the rides and games. And even later in life, when Sam would look so, so different from now—Sam getting his first car; Sam graduating from high school and then college; Sam getting married.

And Dean. She never thought about Dean like this because she knew Dean was hers. She would have Dean for her whole life, and she could enjoy each moment as it happened. She would be there to see everything—from Dean's first date all the way to Dean's first apartment. She knew she could love Dean, and so she did, even when he was a disaster and wrecking the new furniture and destroying picture frames by crashing into them headlong.

But Sam. Sam was always quiet, always calm. He never cried, never screamed, never misbehaved at meals or when they brought him to stores. Everyone commented on how well-behaved Sam was, and Mary only thought, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because he's not mine.

Dean loved Sam already. She had seen him creeping into Sam's nursery one night, after he was supposed to be in bed, and hold on to one of the bars on Sam's crib. Dean had put his finger by Sam's hand, and Sam had grabbed it, instinctively.

John loved both of them. He didn't see a difference between Dean and Sam, except that Dean was older and was expected to be the big brother. Mary could see how Dean took that to heart and how proud John was of him for it. She could see how attached they both were to Sam, and she wanted to scream. She wanted to cry out to them, to tell them that it was all a lie, that she had made a deal years ago and now it was too late to take it back.

She didn't. Mary knew she could never tell anyone about her deal, and so she simply went along with them and tried to harden her heart against the loss of Sam. She wasn't sure she would be able to live through it—not now, not after living with him and taking care of him. But she would live through it. She knew she would.

That had been the deal.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Every night after John fell asleep, Mary crept out of bed, moving slowly and carefully so she didn't wake him. She walked down the hallway and into the nursery. She moved from memory to the side of the crib, and once there she leaned down and kissed Sam on his forehead.

Every night, she wondered if it would be the last.

 

_fin._


End file.
